Brothers
by InkQuillz
Summary: Post Reichenbach. When Sherlock returns, there is only one person he can turn to... First Sherlock fic.


**Title:** Brothers  
><strong>Author:<strong> InkQuillz/Mikayla  
><strong>Spoiler Warning:<strong> Post Reichenbach  
><strong>Chapters:** One shot  
><strong>Genre:<strong> Family/General  
><strong>Rating:<strong> PG  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Sherlock returns and the only person who can help is the man who betrayed him... Because that man happens to be his brother.  
><strong>Author's note:<strong> I've had so many Sherlock fics knocking about my head that I decided I should write at least one of them. My first venture into BBC Sherlock verse so I hope you like it.

The flicker of surprise lasted only a minute, a shadow of pride had rested there too for a second more, then all vanished in one short moment and there again was the cool and collected face of Mycroft Holmes. They stood there, on opposite sides of the room, neither speaking but watching with detached appreciation of the other. Mycroft was the first to make a move, as it should have been; the elder of the two men, the brother and 'protector' as he moved with swiftness; as though nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. He reached his desk, turning his back momentarily on his visitor.

"How did you do it?" The silent completion of that question made the other figure; who was still stood tall, dark and unmoving beside the fireplace smirk: 'How did you do it without my help or without me knowing?' was the unasked question. Mycroft didn't receive any more of an answer than that look of smugness and so did not press the situation; he had time now to ask.

The two men observed each other again, silent still and wondering on both parts what had changed since their departure. In Mycroft was a growing beast raging in his stomach but he did not show it, the anger and resentment would build up and still he would push it aside. How had it come to be that even he would not know of Sherlock's survival? It meant of course only one thing, Sherlock had deliberately kept it from him, let him live in the dark world of being the brother of a murderer of thinking his own flesh and blood dead. What hurt most though, a fact which cut him deeply but he dared not think it, was the simple horror that: in his darkest hour, his little brother had found another to help him. Had their rivalry gone so far and his betrayal so deep that even when he needed it most, Sherlock would rather the hand of a less qualified individual?

Mycroft took a seat on one of the two long sofas in his office, the coffee table separated it from the second sofa, and a single arm chair stood in front of Sherlock and would have placed him at Mycroft's right side. The single gesture of seating himself stirred an action in Sherlock, he knew he was expected to take a seat on the sofa opposite but he would not sit with his back to the door. Instead he took the arm chair, the seat Mycroft usually favoured and the seat that faced the desk and the large oil canvass that covered the safe; a cliché that had never passed Sherlock's amusement in the past.

The younger brother made a great deal of arranging himself in the chair, hooking his left leg over his right, the long jacket brushing his ankle as he did so. They fell again into silence, Sherlock staring at the oil painting that depicted the building in Victorian London; he was in the process of examining the hansom cab when his brother spoke again. Sherlock fidgeted, planting both feet firmly on the floor.

"You didn't feel the need to tell me then?" Mycroft asked coolly, trying to hold back the bitter bite of his hurt that threatened to flow into his tone.

"Couldn't trust you, couldn't trust anyone."

Mycroft opened his mouth to speak but found he had no reply and so shut it again firmly and sat back on the sofa, pondering his next attempt.

"Someone must have known... Someone at the hospital, someone faked your death. Someone made it so even I couldn't identify you myself." He tried to recall who'd been there, who's jobs he'd threatened but his memory was not as sharp as Sherlock's and he could remember nothing but the swirling black terror that had engulfed him in the weeks after the incident.

"Then, I couldn't trust you or anyone who might be weak and give me away... For a non-existent computer code." He added with a sharpness he'd refrained from so far, it betrayed Mycroft again, for at that he shuddered and looked away and had to compose himself once again.

"It was a matter of state..."

"Clearly."

Mycroft inhaled sharply and forced himself to remain seated, he wanted to hit him. He was one of the few people to know Sherlock Holmes properly and so his desire to hit him was rare because he understood. In fact, there had only been two times when he'd have desired to hurt him for real before now, both had been in his younger days. The truth was he couldn't begrudge Sherlock's nature when he himself was so alike.

"And am I weak?" he fumed, forcing his voice into coolness again.

"Yes, you can't help it." Sherlock retorted dryly.

"And John, he is weak?" Sherlock smiled again, he would not tell Mycroft anything he did not wish to and Mycroft could not read his brother the way he could read others or the way Sherlock could read him, his brother was gifted a great deal of things and being a mystery was only one of them. However he did not need to read Sherlock to take a guess at the answer, he knew that John was not privy to the information of Sherlock's life because he was weak or because he could not be trusted, he knew also that there was no way that John had even the slightest of inclines on his friend's survival, that he had deduced from the amount of hours that the doctor had spent at his brother's grave or at the grief he had worn ever since. Not even Sherlock would have been that great of an actor or that able to keep up a disguise. It left only one possible truth. John did not know that Sherlock was alive because Sherlock did not want him to, he knew his brother enough to know the answer to that too. Sherlock did not want John to know because John was in danger.

"Did you not think I deserved to know my own brother wasn't dead? Did it cross your mind for even a minute?" He hissed, his anger getting the better of him finally as he pushed himself off the sofa. Sherlock didn't flinch as most would have; instead he turned his face lazily so he could continue to watch his brother's.

"Barely a second." Was the stony retort and a shrug followed it. "Caring is weak after all; I knew you'd get over it."

Mycroft found himself gobsmacked again and unable to answer. 'Getting over it' had not happened, not in the long three years that had followed his brother's apparent suicide. He had as little chance of it 'getting over' it as John did. Mycroft inhaled sharply through his nose and then pinched the bridge of it and closed his eyes. Sometimes even he wasn't prepared for just how insensitive Sherlock could be.

"What brings you here now then?" He asked finally, leaning against the desk. Sherlock stood and held out a computer USB stick.

"Proof, that Moriarty existed, that there is someone out there wearing my face that managed to convince Scotland Yard that I was a child abductor..." He held the USB up and the black plastic glistened in the artificial light of the room. Sherlock crossed the gap between himself and his brother and waited for Mycroft to take it.

"And what do you want me to do with this?"

Sherlock shrugged. "You helped Jim vanish by telling him my life story. I figured you could make him reappear by telling the world his life story." His tone was so dull but sure of himself. For a moment, Mycroft was struck by the sheer trust his brother was putting in his capabilities.

"And then what will you do, Sherlock? You still faked your own death, there will always be doubts." Sherlock only shrugged in response and moved to the door.

"You're leaving?"

"Yes." Sherlock replied, frowning across at his brother. The expression was enough to say what he couldn't 'why should I stay?'

They stood, staring at one another again before Mycroft swept across the room with more speed that Sherlock had ever witnessed in his brother, he paused before his younger brother and opened his mouth several times to speak but never quite managing it. Instead, he held out his hand, Sherlock took it.

"I'm sorry." He uttered, the younger brother looked more alarmed at that and tilted his head down at the smaller man. "Not a day. Not... I regretted what I did the minute I did it and I did everything I could to fix it."

Sherlock simply nodded his head, he understood of course and the cold indifference was to the Holmes' the equivalent of a hug or a hand shake. The apology accepted, Sherlock turned to go again but stopped himself, the door half open.

"Do not tell, John. That will not solve everything so easily; I still have to prove Moriarty lied about the code as well." He indicated the USB with a nod of his head, Mycroft nodded his in agreement and Sherlock slipped out. Crossing to the window, Mycroft watched his brother sink away into the darkness, disappearing around a corner at the end of the road. He sighed massaged his forehead warily before sinking into the sofa again; head in his hands. A few moments passed by the first sob escaped him.

Sherlock was alive, there was time now to put things right.


End file.
